Alan got out, leaned against the station wagon's bumper, and felt in his pocket for a stick of chewing gum. He was unwrapping it when he heard the three o'clock bell at the Middle School, dreamy and distant in the warm air.
He decided to talk to Mr. Leland Gaunt of Akron, Ohio, as soon as he finished with Brian Rusk, appointment or no appointment... and just as abruptly changed his mind. He'd call the Attorney General's Office in Augusta first, have them check Gaunt's name against the con file. If there was nothing there, they could send the name on to the LAWS R amp; I computer in WashingtonLAWS, in Alan's opinion, was one of the few good things the Nixon administration had ever done.
The first kids were coming down the street now, yelling, skipping, laughing. A sudden idea struck Alan, and he opened the driver's door of the station wagon. He reached across the seat, opened the glove compartment, and pawed through the stuff inside.
Todd's joke can of nuts fell out onto the floor as he did so.
Alan was about to give up when he found what he wanted. He took it, slammed the glove compartment shut, and backed out of the car. He was holding a small cardboard envelope with a sticker on it that said: The Folding Flower Trick Blackstone Magic Co.
19 Greer St.
Paterson, Nj.
From this packet Alan slipped an even smaller square-a thick block of multicolored tissue-paper. He slipped it beneath his watchband.
All magicians have a number of "palming wells" on their persons and about their clothes, and each has his own favorite well.
Under the watchband was Alan's.
With the famous Folding Flowers taken care of, Alan went back to watching for Brian Rusk. He saw a boy on a bike, cutting jazzily in and out through the clots of pint-sized pedestrians, and was alert at once. Then he saw it was one of the Hanlon twins, and allowed himself to relax again.
"slow down or I'll give you a ticket," Alan growled as the boy shot past. jay Hanlon looked at him, startled, and almost ran into a tree. He pedaled on at a much more sedate speed.
Alan watched him for a moment, amused, then turned back in the direction of the school and resumed his watch for Brian Rusk.
7
Sally Ratcliffe climbed the stairs from her little speech therapy room to the first floor of the Middle School five minutes after the three o'clock bell and walked down the main hall toward the office.
The hall was clearing rapidly, as it always did on days when the weather was fair and warm. Outside, droves of kids were shouting their way across the lawn to where the #2 and #3 buses idled sleepily at the curb. Sally's low heels clicked and clacked. She was holding a manila envelope in one hand. The name on this envelope, Frank jewett, was turned in against her gently rounded breast.
She paused at Room 6, one door down from the office, and looked in through the wire-reinforced glass. Inside, Mr. jewett was talking to the half-dozen teachers who were involved in coaching fall and winter sports. Frank Jewett was a pudgy little man who always reminded Sally of Mr. Weatherbee, the principal in the Archie comics. Like Mr.
Weatherbee's, his glasses were always siding down on his nose.
Sitting to his right was Alice Tanner, the school secretary. She appeared to be taking notes.
Mr. jewett glanced to his left, saw Sally looking in the window, and gave her one of his prissy little smiles. She raised one hand in a wave and made herself smile back. She could remember the days when smiling had come naturally to her; next to praying, smiling had been the most natural thing in the world.
Some of the other teachers looked over to see who their fearless leader was looking at. So did Alice Tanner. Alice waggled her fingers coyly at Sally, smiling with saccharine sweetness.
They know, Sally thought. Every one of them knows that Lester and I are history. Irene was so sweet last night... so sympathetic... and so anxious to spill her guts. That little bitch.
Sally waggled her fingers right back, feeling her own coy-and totally bogus-smile stretch her lips. I hope you get hit by a dumptruck on your way home, you whory-looking thing, she thought, and then walked on, her sensible low heels clicking and clacking.
When Mr. Gaunt had called her during her free period and told her it was time to finish paying for the wonderful splinter, Sally had reacted with enthusiasm and a sour kind of pleasure. She sensed that the "little joke" she had promised to play on Mr. jewett was a mean one, and that was all right with her. She felt mean today.
She put her hand on the office door... then paused.
What's the matter with you? she wondered suddenly. You have the splinter... the wonderful, holy splinter with the wonderful, holy vision caught inside it. Aren't things like that supposed to make a person feel better? Calmer? More in touch with God the Father Almighty? You don't feel calmer and more in touch with anyone. You feel like someone filled your head up with barbed wire.
"Yes, but that's not my fault, or the splinter's fault," Sally muttered. "That's Lester's fault. Mr. Lester Big-Prick Pratt."